


Expensive Gifts

by HazelRiver



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Fingering, Humiliation, Oral Sex, Roleplay, Smut, prostitution kink, roleplaying, sort of not too much though, talks of spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 23:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17949197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelRiver/pseuds/HazelRiver
Summary: To celebrate their first anniversary, Allison decides to give House a little surprise: her, role-playing as a prostitute. House accepts his gift with aplomb.





	Expensive Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> House obviously has a thing for prostitutes, I figured Allison would have caught onto this and run with the idea when she was at a loss for what to get him for their anniversary. If I'm being entirely honest, I'm just now watching the show for the first time and absolutely loving it. I wanted to try writing in present-tense, something I haven't attempted in literally years, and these two really have such great chemistry--it felt like a natural fit to write a new ship in this new style, for me. I hope it works!
> 
> Starts with a short, friendly scene between Allison and Foreman then skips to the smut with House. The Foreman scene isn't necessary to understand the rest.

            The plastic package of the wig has “Candy Apple” in garish white lettering across the flimsy piece of cardboard meant to keep the bag closed. To her, the synthetic hair looks more scarlet than candy apple under the fluorescent lights, and she knows that blonde would have been more flattering on her, but she needed something cheap and cheesy enough to satisfy House—and the platinum wigs didn’t come with express shipping. It isn’t until she pulls the transparent bag out of her backpack to show Foreman, the loud crinkling of the plastic making her eyes dart to be sure that they are alone in the locker room, that embarrassment occurs to Allison.

            “Thanks, but I don’t know if that’s really my color.” Foreman’s grinning as he says it, arms crossed over his chest as he peaks into her bag.

            “Ha ha. Will you give me a ride or what?” She’s already changed out of her lab coat and work clothes, so she’s left with her bulky coat buttoned and belted across her flimsy clothes in the hopes of no one but House seeing what she’s hiding.

            “You know, normal people just give gifts on anniversaries.” As he speaks he loosens his tie, closing up the locker across from hers, “Dinner and a movie, flowers, chocolates, jewelry, that sort of thing. You’ve heard of those, right?”

            “Can you try to imagine picking chocolate or flowers out for House?” They have an easy rapport that Allison usually appreciates, but not tonight.

            “Point taken, but really? He wants this, you’re sure?”

            “I didn’t realize you had such a keen interest in his sex life.” She shrugs, zips her backpack up, closes the locker door, and spins the dial of the lock in one smooth action. Her stomach flutters with the intoxicating power ‘fuck it’ attitude flowing through her system, combined with a confidence that has come from a year of blissful sex with a man constantly reassuring her (with his hands and mouth) that she can do no wrong in the bedroom.

            “I just don’t get why I’m driving you.” Foreman says and she is not completely convinced that he knows he’s just agreed to do it.

            He starts out of the locker room and she’s quick to follow, not minding the ‘walk and talk’ pattern that only feels right for the quiet PPTH hallways.

            “It adds to the realism of it all.” She smiles at nurses as they make their way toward the parking lot, trying to keep her face from revealing what exactly they’re talking about, even though the secret feels like it’s been written across her forehead in red ink, “It wouldn’t be very believable if we hopped off his bike and walked up to the door together, would it?”

            Foreman suddenly stops walking and she almost bumps into his back. The sudden movement plays with the bottom of the coat and she shivers at the way the cool air tickles her bare legs.

            “What the hell?” She huffs, paranoid hands jumping to clutch the material about her waist. Annoyed, she pushes at his shoulder to encourage him to keep walking, but with no success. Instead, Foreman turns to her and nods at the backpack hanging over her shoulder.

            “I’ll drive you if you show me what sort of ‘fuck-me’ heels you’ve got in that bag.”

            “No. Not happening.”

            “Alright then,” A self-satisfied smirk spreads across his face, the sort he usually only saves for when he thinks he’s succeeded in getting under House’s skin, “I guess you’re going to have to call him and tell him you couldn’t get a ride after all-”

            “Fine.” More aggressively than is probably necessary, she slings the bag off her shoulders and opens it so he can see her rummaging hands push past the unopened wig bag, her wallet, a packet of tissues, some mascara, a hairbrush, two tampons, until she is able to create a clear path for him to see the black stilettos at the bottom. Strappy and dangerously tall, they look more like a death wish than anything a sane woman would wear on their anniversary. Foreman looks between the bag and her twice, eyes unblinking, before shaking his head in disbelief.

            “You know tonight is supposed to be about you too, right?” He starts off walking again, avoiding her eyes as he gesticulates in her direction, “I hope that’s not what this relationship is: you bending over backwards to please his every sick whim.”

            “Don’t worry, it’s for me too.”

            He shakes his head, smile cracking into a laugh as they step out into the parking lot.

            “Whatever you say.”

\--

            She hears her client before she sees him, from behind the door there’s a peculiar step-thunk-step that betrays the fact that he uses a cane before he even swings he door open. He’s handsome, tall with shockingly blue eyes and greying hair. The way he leans on the cane hints that he’s used it for a while, it no longer seems like an accessory but an extension of his being—Allison doesn’t say any of that.

            “Hi, are you Dr. Hose? I was sent by the agency.”

            The rumble of the street, cars passing, the streetlight buzzing overhead, a bike’s spokes turning on the other side of the stream of traffic, fill the silence of him looking her over. For a moment she worries that he doesn’t like what he sees, the blank expression he wears makes it’s obvious that her presence has caught him off-guard. Then he seems to make a decision, one side of his mouth tugs up into an almost-smirk and he nods, running a hand through his messy, thinning hair. Her skin tingles as she waits for his approval, liking the way his gaze sweeps over her in one long glance before returning to the smaller details. She can practically see the wheels turning as his eyes dart across her—cheap wig, expensive coat, false eyelashes, tacky heels, crimson toenails.

            “It’s Dr. _House_ ,” He corrects her but doesn’t smile, “come in.”

            The door stays open behind him as he limps into his house and toward his couch. Leaning against the back of it, cane still clutched in his hold, he waits for her to lock the door behind her before he speaks again.

            “Is this your first time doing this?”

            “What makes you ask?” She wonders if this is him establishing his proclivities, if he wants someone inexperienced and a little nervous.

            “For starters, you said my name as soon as I opened the door.” He doesn’t seem amused, “What if you had gotten the address wrong and told my neighbors that I hired a hooker?”

             “Sorry.” Suddenly feeling out of place in her tacky wig, Allison glances down at her toes and considers asking him if she’s making a fool out of herself—she certainly feels like she is.

            “What’s your name?” His voice is low, a coarse grumble that yanks her from her thoughts and makes the hairs on her arms stand on end, even from beneath her coat. His voice centers her, invigorates her, reminds her who she’s doing this for.

            “What do you want it to be?” She asks as she looks up at him, trying for sultry and flirty.

            “Did you just quote _Pretty Woman_ at me?”

            Caught off-guard at his recognizing the quote (though she supposes she shouldn’t be, he’s the closest to omniscient as any person she’s ever met), her mouth hangs open at the question.

            “Doesn’t matter.” He stands and makes slow work of walking up to her, eyes boring into her as he walks the few paces it takes to invade her personal space. “Tell me your name.”

            He delves deep enough into her space that she can smell the familiar mix of his laundry detergent and sweat from a long day at the hospital. His curious eyes stay on her own as she debates giving a fake name, but the idea of him calling her _Candy_ for the rest of the night is slightly nauseating.

            “I’m Allison.”

            “Allison?” He tilts his head, just slightly, enough for the light to dance along his iris.

            “Yes. I’m Allison.” She smirks too; he feels less like a stranger when they’re so obviously playing at being strangers; it feels like sharing an inside joke together, when he leans a little closer to her. She parts her lips on instinct but he doesn’t kiss her.

            “Not Ally or, I don’t know, Al?” Low voice, taunting eyes, and just out of reach, he’s a tease.

            “Do you want my name to be Ally tonight?”

            “No. No, Allison is fine.” He pulls away, straightening to his full height, and is silent for all of ten seconds before asking, “Was that your pimp dropping you off?”

            It should take some self-restraint to keep from snorting at the question, but she’s found that her mind has gone peacefully quiet in his proximity. If anything, her breath comes quicker as she is sentenced to that scrutinizing gaze so close to her.

            “No, just a friend.”

            “Uh huh.” When his hand moves up toward her face she finds herself leaning towards his touch, only to be disappointed by the lack of skin-on-skin contact. Instead, he wraps his fingers in the ends of her synthetic hair, but he’s careful not to tug or displace it, “This is a very flattering color on you.”

            “Thank you.” She hears the breathiness in her own voice and blushes at the smirk her meekness inspires from him.

            “Alright.” He turns away from her to move to the other side of the couch and settle himself onto the center cushion. “Come on over.”

            When she moves to sit beside him, he shakes his head.

            “Uh uh, over there.” He uses his cane to point toward the piano. She follows his direction, body still tingling with nerves, and stands in front of the instrument. The way he looks at her is reminiscent of a man attempting to solve a puzzle. With his blank face and chin resting in his palm, if she didn’t know any better, she might have thought he was bored.

            “Take your coat off.” She does. When she glances down, she sees that her hands are trembling.

            The oversized buttons clatter to the floor, almost hiding the breathy gasp that his lungs squeeze out when her outfit is revealed. She had spent a fair amount of time in the handicap stall that evening, staring at the outfit in disbelief of what had arrived in the mail—it’s all a bit smaller and flimsier than she had realized it would be. The crop top is thin, white cotton that does little to hide that she’s wearing no bra beneath it and the scarlet, leather miniskirt is hardly modest, either. Her bare naval is on display, like most of her legs and the dark points of her nipples beneath the shirt. As he looks her over, Dr. House’s neutral expression begins to melt.

            “What do you think?” She holds her arms out just the slightest bit, wondering if he can tell how uncertain she feels.

            “I think you should take your shirt off.” His voice is as distant as the look in his eyes; he seems like a different person, but that’s not entirely true either. He seems like House on a bad night, detached from his sarcasm and goofy antics, leaving behind a middle-aged man poorly coping with his chronic pain—but that’s not entirely right, either. He’s her House still, there is no sadness or self-pity in him tonight, but his effected dispassion leaves her feeling jumpy, eager to please him. There’s a blunt masculinity in the way he leaves his legs spread, a challenge to arouse him in his nonchalant gaze, and it works for her.

            She doesn’t hesitate to obey his order. She grips the bottom of her tiny shirt and holds the material taught as she drags it up over her nipples, above her face, back arched as it slides up her arms and she does an unnecessary shimmy that flicks the faux hair around her shoulders. When it’s finally off and the cool AC is able to blow directly on her flushed skin, she tosses the warm material in his direction. Dr. House plucks it out of the air and holds it to his face, eyes sewn to her breasts as he presses the warm shirt to his stubble. For his benefit, Allison bounces a little on her heels, just to chart the way he studies the plucky bounce of her breasts. Heat twinges in her belly, even though he remains fully dressed while she stands topless for his observation.

            He looks her over as she sways a little. She thinks it is funny how she has no urge to cover herself in front of him, when nearly a year ago she had requested he turn the lights off for their first time.

            “Do you like this?” His voice is raspy and she shivers in a Pavlovian response. Her body knows what usually follows when his voice drops to that octave.

            “Do I like what?”

            “Being on display like this? Knowing you’ve got an old man drooling over you, ready to worship your tight little body?” Heat floods through her, but she does her best at playing nonchalance. If there’s anything Allison knows about him, it’s that he’s always appreciated a good struggle.

            “A jobs a job.” She shrugs, hands on her bare waist as she sways a little, “The website clearly says it costs extra if you want me to act like I’m enjoying it.”

            He laughs at the audacity of her cheek, smiling up at her as she silently watches him—she’s still unsure of how she wants to play this: bored until he proves how talented he is with his mouth, committed to doing whatever she needs for a tip, or with a faux wall of confidence that hides her nerves? Before she has a chance to internally debate her options, he snaps in her direction before pointing at his lap. She jumps at the noise and he smirks, lips pursed and cane excitedly tapping the ground.

            “Come here.” His voice is hard and all amusement flees from his eyes. She drops the cutesy swaying in favor of getting to him as quickly as possible. That effort, too, is soon thwarted after she takes three steps.

            “Stop where you are.” Allison freezes, which takes some effort on her ridiculously high heels, with her heartrate accelerating in the familiar fear of disappointing, “Get on your knees.”

            She falters for a mere second before wobbling and settling herself down onto her hands and knees. The wood is uncomfortable beneath her and she knows her body well enough to know that — if she could see what he was seeing — she would not thrilled at the way her breasts hang. When she glances up to see if he’s watching, Dr. House positively leers at her.

            “Good girl.” As always, those two words send shivers down her spine. “Now, crawl to me.”

            She is sure that heat is actually radiating from her cheeks with the way she burns at the request, pinned by the challenge in his eyes. Does he expect her to safeword out? She doesn’t think so, he’s never been the type of lover to push her to the brink just for the sake of seeing how far he can get her to bend to his whim.

            It’s humiliating, crawling on her knees, and that in and of itself is its own special brand of inebriating. The shape of her shoes, the rounded open toes, makes her bottom half wobbly as she scuttles toward him. The wood flooring is cold and unforgiving, finally making it onto the grey rug is a relief. The way he watches her is a hot, heavy presence that curls up to tighten her chest and redden the skin of her neck and ears.

It’s when she finally makes it to him, sitting up on her knees and reaching for his belt, that he collects her hands in his grasp and she realizes that just as much as she’s playing a role, he is too. She feels thick for having taken so long to accept that, but it’s there nonetheless. The man sitting before her is a more rugged version of her boyfriend, a little rougher around the edges, a little darker.

            “Be honest now.” He leans down, invading her personal space once more, and uses his tight grip on her hands to tug her upwards, so that they’re nearly nose-to-nose. “I won’t tell your boss,” he winks, “but I have to know: do you like this, behaving like a dirty slut for whatever old man will cough up the cash?”

            She decides her role then, too. If he wants to be a dick, a domineering client who gets off on humiliating her, she wants to be the slightly less-experienced working woman who hasn’t yet realized just how good it feels to be told she’s bad.

            “I-I don’t know what you’re asking me. Why would you ask that? I’m just doing my best-”

            “No sob stories necessary, come here.” He pulls her again, until she’s rising to totter on her heels, and centers her with a hand on her hip. “Straddle me.”

            She moves cautiously, both hands held together by just one of his hands, and still attempting to be careful about where she places her weight around his bad thigh, before he uses his grip on her to yank her down. She gasps at the feel of his jeans rubbing against her spread legs. One hand still clasps her hands to her chest, his free one plays at the hem of the leather skirt.

            “I asked if you like this,” He sounds ready to delve into a lecture full of boring, technical terminology, “because of the pretty way you blushed when I asked you to strip, and your shortness of breath, and—ah,” with sarcasm lacing his eyes he puts on his most approachable smile and roams one hand up the expanse of her bare thigh, “relax, I’m a doctor.” Not finding panties, he grins and then takes liberties, making her shudder with a finger running along the length of her.

            “Just as I suspected: you’re soaking wet.”

            He always knows how to touch her and she’s never quite learned to conceal how much she adores it. It’s bad for his ego, she’s sure, but still she can’t stop the recline of her neck and the pitiful moan that pours out of her when he touches her. Two slender fingers slip through her, parting her damp curls, running the length of her to teasingly dip at her entrance, beckoning inside her in response to her quickened gasps for breath, before pulling away completely. She whimpers at the loss of contact, grinding down onto his lap, pleasure only heightened by the cool stare he fixes her with. Overdramatically, so that she feels every stroke, he dries his fingers on her naked thigh. The cool air of the apartment leaves her skin tacky as it dries.

            The lack of touch should have brought her back into the right state of mind, but her head feels cloudy with desire.

            “So you do like being used, don’t you?”

            Light headed with unfulfilled desire, Allison squirms atop him, tugging on her hands in a way that he might be able to believe is a plea for her freedom, but is actually a way of getting him to rub against her tight nipples. The drag of his skin against her pulls another moan from her, the plastic strands of the wig tickling her shoulders when her head tilts back. She had planned on making his night by being his personal call girl, but she hadn’t realized how worked up she would be getting when the idea of being owned by him played out in her favor. She fidgets at the very thought, until a hand on the flat of her belly stops her movement.

            “Allison, I asked you a question, twice now. But you’ve refused to answer.” The hand on her belly moves upwards to squeeze one of her breasts, pinching and rolling her nipple, sending shocks of electricity through her core that she arches into, “Do you know what happens to bad girls who don’t answer when they’re spoken to, hm?”

            “No, but I suppose you’re gonna tell me aren’t you?”

            A gasp falls out of her when he uses his hold on her hands to yank her forward, so that her weight is fully on her knees and she’s leaning over him, their faces close and breath mingling. It’s utterly intoxicating to be so near him; the muscles in her stomach clench with the effort of not tumbling forward onto his chest. It never occurs to her to be afraid or anything but purely aroused. When he finally leans forward, eyes on hers and lips parting for a kiss, Allison’s eyes flutter shut in desperate anticipation.

            “Lose the cheek or there will be consequences.” His lips press to her ear, and the delicious scrape of his stubble underscores the pure sex in his low, gravelly order. The hand on her thigh gives her a firm squeeze.

            “The agency warned me you’d be bossy,” She baits him, turning her head to press her cheek against his, “but no one mentioned how lenient you’d be. Three strikes and I’m still not out, Dr. House?” She nearly coos at him when he nips her earlobe, teeth a little too sharp but not quite sharp enough. They’ve gone the way of punishment before—she’d been a naughty girl, he the haughty disciplinary, her over his lap, panting and crying and pleading as his hot strikes across her ass bloomed into burning pleasure—and she feels him twitch at the recollection.

            “Blow me.” He drawls, fingers returning to her sex, languorously stroking her but never with enough pressure, never touching her clit.

            “Oh,” She gasps when he cleverly avoids entering her, even as her hips jerk down toward his digits, “likewise-”

            “No,” He withdraws and wipes his slick fingers against her chest, sketching an H in her own fluids. Pushing her back to an upright position on his lap with a smirk, he uses both of his hands to uncurl her fingers and lead her touch down to his belt buckle. “Really, blow me.”

            “Fine.” She’s afraid of complaining any more than that. They had had words, early on in their relationship, where he had expressed the concern—in his own roundabout way— that he was burdening her with his love for oral. It had taken weeks of her surprising him with blowjobs, and him frantically reciprocating by going down on her as often as he could manage, before he accepted that Allison enjoys his body just as much as he enjoys hers.

            When she stands, glaring at him, he reaches out and pinches the hem of the leather skirt again.

            “I think we can lose this now, don’t you?” The showy smile he gives her, the one that lets her know he’s purposefully trying to goad her, forces more color into her cheeks. They both know it’s working, no one’s ever gotten under her skin quicker or more thoroughly than House has.

            She bends at the waist to unbuckle the straps of her shoes and he takes the opportunity to take hold of her chin, using his forefinger and thumb to lift her face to his gaze. Her hands freeze on her ankles, not having unclasped her heels yet. Her entire body is taught in anticipation of where he’s going to take the scene next.

            “You’re exceedingly beautiful for a whore, you know.” It’s a soft admission and she knows it’s probably ridiculous to feel any sort of emotion about it, but the hush of his voice is a tone that has always worked on her. She suspects that he can see her thoughts running across her face, how much she adores him, how fucking sexy it is to be his whore—a moment of companionship takes her off guard, his eyes flicker with admiration and her chest tightens at his knuckles brushing the bangs of the horrid wig away from eyes. The tenderness is brief, though. Soon his eyes harden and his thumb presses against her bottom lip, collecting red lipstick and smearing it across her cheek.

            “The shoes can stay. Whatever gets you to your knees quickest.”

            “Ass.” She mutters, gripping his jeans as she carefully lowers herself back to her knees.

            “Maybe later, thanks.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

            She sticks her tongue out at him, surprised that he doesn’t stick his fingers in her mouth just to bother her.

            “Well then,” Ignoring her childish display, he sounds mightily smug as he looks down his nose at her, “get to it, my beautiful little whore. Suck me.”

            “There’s a condom in my skirt,” She tells him as his buckle falls loose and the leather slides away from the loops with a smooth whisper.

            “Unnecessary, the agency tests us both before sending you out, don’t you remember?” It’s a slick invention of getting what he wants, but she’s glad for his genius, his ability to pull ideas out of thin air, his ability to make her feel treasured even as he treats her like a hired girl.

            “Great memory, Doctor.” She likes being between his spread legs and running her hands up his inner thighs, feeling the heat even through the denim separating her touch from his skin.

            “Yeah. That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Now why don’t you show me why I’m paying your outrageous fee?”

            She doesn’t tease him, that’s not what he’s paying her for. Instead she gets to just what he wants, lathering him up by spitting on the head, using her hand to jerk him off for a few strokes before bringing him into the heat of her mouth. Avoiding his eyes is her own little act of rebellion, her heart racing as she listens to his groans, she revels in the way his control unfurls when she takes him deeper. The salty, musky smell of him is intoxicating, and she’s almost grossed out with her own proclivity for wanting to be closer to the core of him, to the life of him. She breathes out of her nose, long, measured pants that rustle the greying curls across his pelvis, as she drools onto him, bobbing in slow, languid strokes, up and down, then up and deeper down against.

            It brings tears to her eyes to take him so deep, her jaw aches with it, but she knows she hasn’t succeeded until he jerks in her hold, shouting her name, the hand that shoots out to hold her is so eager it knocks the wig from her head.

            “Stop, stop! Fuck, stop or I’ll come.” His hands bury in her hair, the ponytail falling away with the urgency he grasps at her with, pushing her away.

            With one long upward suck, she slurps off of him, finally meeting his eyes with an exaggerated innocence. They glance down in unison to stare at the streaks of her crimson lipstick left on his shiny dick and there, nearly at the base of him, is a messy ring. On a whim, she dips her head one last time and presses her pursed lips to the inside of his thigh. When she pulls away, settling back to rest her bare ass on her heels, a red kiss is stained on his pale skin. With widened eyes trained on him, purposefully slow blinks, and a shy smile, she plays up the idea of being embarrassed of how much she loves having him in her mouth.

            “You like that?” His thumb returns to her slightly-parted lips, smearing what is left of her lipstick across her cheek, again. She feels a mess, but can only conclude that he likes the visual evidence of what their game is doing to her.

            "Yes, I do.”

            “You like being my little whore, too, don’t you?”

            “Your whore for another fifteen minutes,” She reminds him, chin jerking toward the clock on the wall, the one that reads 11:44.

            “Sixteen, actually. We should make good use of our time then. Up you get.” Two coarse hands, riddled with calluses that have healed over time and time again, take hold of her shoulders and guide her to her feet. Before she has the chance to straddle him, he reaches out and uses one hand to steady her with a hold on her hip as the other slips back between her legs. A gasp slips out of her as he rubs along her, finally catching her clit between his fingers and giving her a little pinch, before he finally—slowly—enters her.

            The sensation of him within her nearly knocks her off her feet; his hand on her hip ends up holding up so much of her weight that he sits up and gathers her to his body, scruffy face nuzzling at her breasts. He fucks her with his fingers, delving deep into her and crooking them against her inner wall. He breathily chuckles against her damp skin when she fists her fingers in the shoulders of his shirt and cries out in pleasure in response to his thumb circling her clit. Breath hot against her naval, tongue sloppy on her nipples, clammy forehead resting between her breasts—he seems to be almost as blissed out as she is, with her knees shaking and head tossed back. Frantic to finish, she bends her knees in an attempt to grind down onto his hand.

            “Tell me when you’re close.” It sounds like her House, the one she fell in love with before he had even taken her on their disastrous first date, collected but merciful as she thrashes against him.

            “I’m close, I’m close.” It takes will power to obey his command and stop herself from coming all of his fingers.

            He ignores her indignant whine, which stems from the very core of her in waves of crestfallen disappointment, when he slips his fingers out of her and licks them clean.

            “Come on then, Allison. It’s your time to shine, your eleven o’clock number, time to earn the buckos.”

            Limbs already liquefied with ecstasy, straddling his lap comes easy to her. She kisses him then, finally, and it’s like the first rain after a drought. He knows her so completely, it unravels her. His kiss is wet, thorough, and he is confident in the way his tongue strokes into her; if she could live in that moment, in the hungry, lusty kiss of House, she would.

            The act of grasping him and guiding herself down onto him is all muscle memory that she cherishes for its speed. It takes two thrusts of adjustments—his hands clamping around her slim waist and hers returning to steady herself on his shoulders—before they’re rocking together. He fills her so deeply, so wholly, that every bounce on his thighs sends her spiraling, dizzy with pleasure, toward him and back away again as she aches for more of what she’s giving. His pants of pleasure tickle her breasts and she’s happy to press them closer to him, accept on hand grasping a tit to hold still for his mouth to find and suck at.

            “Oh fuck me,” Her voice is weak and he laughs, rutting up into her with a particularly vicious thrust.

            It’s primal, nearly frantic, the way they yank at each other’s bodies—taking what they want, what they need, in a way that should mean that the other is left to fend for themselves, but what one happens to need is exactly what sends the other grasping for more of what they’ve already got. Allison had been amazed, some months in, after a quickie in one of the clinic’s exam rooms, that their fucking wasn’t a fluke that could be written off as a symptom of the honeymoon stage. They fuck each other good, with a raw harmony that sends her wits out the window until she’s nothing but a body, rolling down onto him over and over, accepting his touch wherever she can get it, moaning at his thumb finding her clit, arching her back as she comes with a long, drawn out, reverent mewl of his name.

            As she rides out her orgasm, slumping onto him even as her hips keep bucking, taking as much of him as she can get, House dips his hands beneath her, clutching handfuls of her ass, and flips her over so her back takes up the length of the couch cushions. He holds her one leg to the side, spreading her wider and taking a long look at what is—she is sure—her slick, red cunt, probably puffy with use, and grins. The cold air makes her hiss before he tugs at her, pulling her close, and sliding back into her. It’s a natural fit. Even at that awkward angle and slightly off balance with the lack of his cane, it only takes a short series of thrusts, his hipbones bruising her inner thighs with the power he rocks into her with, until he comes with a low grunt. It’s a long, hot release that she rocks up toward, enjoying the delicious taboo of him coming deep inside her.

            He breathes heavily against her, panting and complaining as he slips out of her and yanks his jeans up, doing the button but not bothering with the zipper.

            Even post-coital, she’s wary of upsetting his leg as she adjusts them so they’re laying together on the couch. House goes easily, always languid and lazy after orgasms, letting her guide him to the outside of the couch with his bad leg on the outside, so that she can burrow her back against the cushions after tossing her heels off. It’s a tight fit, but made more comfortable when she drapes herself across his chest, her naked body pressed against his sweat-dampened shirt. The wetness that leaks out of her is lewd, obscene even, and she loves it because it’s him, so she is content to sit and relax for some time before running off to the bathroom. She told him so ages ago, her fuck-riddled mind can’t recall the exact time and place, but she remembers how he had called her a dirty pervert before laughing into her open mouth.

            His hand skims her back on the journey to his pocket, pulling his Vicodin bottle out and single-handedly popping a dry dosage. Allison used to worry she had hurt him somehow, now she just nuzzles closer to him, heavy eyelids closed as she listens to the steady rhythm of his breathing that expands his chest. This movement always remind her of being just a little seasick after getting off a boat, her limbs jelly and mind completely peaceful, as she struggles to reacquaint herself with the real world.

            “You ok?” She murmurs, lips feeling particularly dry against the cotton of his shirt.

            “Better than ever.” It’s not a biting sarcastic jab, but a fanciful promise as he drags his fingers through her hair. “Beautiful.” She’s not sure if he’s talking to himself or her, but she’s content to stay still either way.

            When she’s just about asleep, House wiggles out from beneath her and goes looking for his cane on the rug.

            “Where are you going?”

            “To get your payment.” She blinks, the scene momentarily forgotten, she thought it had ended as soon as they had cuddled up together.

            “You paid in advance,” She only has the energy to lift her head, not bothering moving her torso, as he limps down the hall, “come back and hold me.”

            “I’m getting your tip, then. Don’t move.”

            She sighs but obeys, reclining back onto the couch and letting her eyes return to darkness. Listening closely, she can only make out the rhythm of his walk and the squeak of the closet door opening before she gives up on trying to figure out his plans.

            “Wakey, wakey, my sweet little whore.”

            “Hey!” Her protest is half-lived, cut short by the sight of him holding out two wrapped presents. His amused smirk at her indignant complaint charms her more than she wants to admit. Both presents are perfect rectangles, one big and the other just about the size of his hand, each wrapped in shiny pink paper that looks more expensive than the wig she had donned for him.

            “Scooch over.”

            She obliges, gathering herself onto her knees, creating enough space for him to settle into the corner seat. He grunts as she leans in to kiss him before he has properly situated himself, but it’s one of the false complaints that he always uses to earn pity points about his age. She plays into it, even knowing it’s not exactly an authentic noise, cupping his chin and sucking on his bottom lip when he attempts to pull away.

            “Here, happy anniversary. Open this one first.” He hands her the bigger of the two packages.

            “Happy anniversary, I thought you forgot.” She admits as she accepts it, peeling away the shiny pink paper to find an unlabeled clothing box.

            “Wrapping provided by Wilson, of course.” Wilson’s talent with wrapping paper has made itself known on every birthday and holiday they’ve spent together thus far.

            “Of course.” She smiles at him, pressing another kiss to his pursed lips before pushing the top open and brushing the store’s white paper aside. “Oh, Greg, it’s beautiful.”

            “I kept the receipt,” He immediately assures her, “if you don’t like it.”

            “I love it.” With eager fingers, she pulls the silk robe out of the box and slides it over her shoulders. It happens to be red, more like the shade of blood than Candy Apple, and the luxurious material caresses her skin as she folds it over herself. Above her heart, it’s monogrammed with _Dr. C_ in elegant, white script. The belt is white too, concealed by a layer of red lace. She beams at him, her cheeks aching from the effort, pleased to see fondness in his eyes as he presses the next gift into her hands.

            “Now this one.”

            The pink paper crinkles away, sliding forgotten to the floor, to reveal a black velvet box. It’s far too big to be a ring, but her heart still leaps at the knowledge that nothing but jewelry could be inside.

            “Greg-” When she goes to warn him, he takes the box back from her to open it himself.

            Laying on a bed of creamy silk is a stunning necklace. It’s really more a string of diamonds than anything else, the glittery crystals gleam even in the dull light of their living room.

            “Greg,” She’s breathless again, eyes widened and trained on the diamonds—she counts to twenty before giving up—trying to find words for how overwhelmed she feels, “this is too much! I can’t accept this, I didn’t even get you a real gift-”

            “Yes, you did.” He corrects her, blue eyes full of meaning, and they both know he isn’t referring to their night of kinky roleplaying. “Don’t worry, I can afford it. I’m a doctor, you know…Besides, I thought it would match your mother’s earrings.” The sentiment tugs at something in her heart, she’s incapable of restraining from kissing him when he looks at her with such open adoration. He jerks his chin towards the box in his hands, “Go ahead, take it.”

            She allows herself to smile and reach out carefully, almost afraid of the obviously expensive jewelry. When her fingers finally make contact with the cool cut stone, Greg quickly closes the box open and closed on her hand. Allison jumps, laughing in shock, leaning in to kiss the self-satisfied smirk off of him.

            “So I take it you’re a fan of _Pretty Woman_ , then, huh?” She giggles, the necklace forgotten in his lap as she steals another kiss, enjoying his stubble against her smooth skin. He holds her still for a moment, one large hand tenderly clasped against her cheek as he left a lingering kiss on her waiting lips.

            He pulls away with a haughty grin.

            “What can I say, I’m an old man with simple pleasures. A pretty woman in diamonds that I bought for her, that does it for me.”

            “That’s not what I meant.”

            “I know, sheesh are you too literal for a little wordplay?” She let him play at being thick-headed, at liking to hear himself talk about something they both knew she understood, “See what I did was take the title of a beloved romantic movie and pretended I didn’t know what it was, so that I could refer to you as-”

            “Greg.”

            “Yes dear?” He nearly sings.

            “Tell me, how would you feel about seeing your pretty little whore in nothing but the diamonds you bought her? Think you’re too old to handle that tonight?”

            “Well, we won’t know until we try, will we?”

            “You’re just full of good answers, House.”

            “That’s what they tell me.”

**Author's Note:**

> My first piece for this fandom (I know I'm about a decade late, is anyone out there?), so please be kind! Meanwhile, I hope everyone has Pretty Woman memorized like I definitely do, and knows what I'm talking about with the hand-in-the-jewelry-box bit.  
> If not, see this gif for this iconic, improvised Richard Gere & Julia Roberts magic: https://media.giphy.com/media/11DOiCnCHlQY36/giphy.gif though it's not my gif.)


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